On the Shore of Lake Atitlán, Apparently I Ruined Breakfast
On the edge of another blue world
the lake looms like salvation. Over
coffee, my mom and tía speak excitedly
about the vibrant villages along the shore,
how you can only get there by boat
across the lake’s beautiful depths, how
the volcanos stand piously over the water,
how each village is named for one of the twelve
apostles. I ask, with complete sincerity,
if that means one is named for Judas.
The waitress brings our food. My mom
and tía eat slowly with side-eyes and silence.
Copyright © 2025 by Ariel Francisco. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on January 6, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
